


One more to the chest

by ExultedShores



Series: Once more, with feeling [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Fix-It, Gen, Resurrection, post-episode 8x03, spoilers for 8x03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 12:40:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18691693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExultedShores/pseuds/ExultedShores
Summary: When the Long Night has passed, Jorah Mormont opens his eyes.It hurts.





	One more to the chest

**Author's Note:**

> Episode 8x03 wrecked me. I am _wrecked_. Jorah has been my favourite character from day one, and while he went out in the best way possible, it still hurts that he won't see the end of Daenerys' journey when he has been with her from the first.
> 
> So I wrote this. Come stay with me in the sweet clutches of denial.

It hurts.

He can feel every wound, every cut made by a wight’s blade, from the shallow line on his cheek to the gaping hole in his chest. He can feel the stinging cold wind against his face, the freezing earth against his back. He can feel his heart palpitating, his lungs rattling, his stomach churning.

He can _feel_.

And he knows he shouldn’t be able to.

He remembers slipping away, Daenerys’ arms around his shoulders, her hand on his cheek, her tears dripping onto his forehead. He looked at her for as long as he was able, taking in her fine features for what he knew was the last time. He tried to tell her it was alright, but words failed him, blood blocking his airway. He died content, knowing she was safe, that he had done his duty.

And yet he’s very much alive.

If he weren’t, it wouldn’t hurt this much.

His eyes are closed – someone must have closed them for him, after he expelled his last breath – but he can sense the presence of another nearby, a single source of life and warmth amongst the corpses he knows he must be surrounded by.

Jorah opens his eyes.

There is a woman kneeling at his side, but it is not Daenerys. This is the woman who implored him to command the Dothraki, the woman who lit their swords aflame before they charged into battle. This is the Red Woman, the Priestess of R'hllor. Melisandre.

“Arise, Ser Jorah,” she implores him. “The Lord of Light did not allow me to return you from death only to have you perish again from the cold.”

Sitting up is an unprecedented challenge, his every fibre protesting the movement. “Why,” he begins before he chokes on the blood congealed in his throat. His coughing echoes across the eerily empty grounds. “Why did you bring me back?”

“It is simple. Your part is not yet done. I have seen it in the flames,” Melisandre says. Even in the darkness, it’s as though there is fire dancing in her eyes. “When the Dragon Queen takes the Seven Kingdoms, she will need you by her side. She has said it herself.”

He can recall the words vividly. _Do not walk away from your Queen, Jorah the Andal_. _You have not been dismissed_. _I command you to heal yourself, and then return to me_. _When I take the Seven Kingdoms, I need you by my side_.

He’s been forced to leave her side before, because she commanded it, or because there was no alternative. But he’s always found his way back to her, no matter the barrier between them. Betrayal couldn’t keep him from her. Greyscale couldn’t keep him from her. What is death, really, but another obstacle to overcome?

Heartsbane is still clutched tightly in his grip, and he uses the greatsword to push himself to his knees, then up to his feet. He sways, but he doesn’t fall, will not fall again.

Here he stands.

“The Dragon Queen is inside the walls,” Melisandre answers his unspoken question. “She wanted to take you back with her, but she could not. There are many dead. The living take precedence tonight.”

“Good,” Jorah rasps. Grey Worm must have taken her away, or perhaps Jon Snow. Others who care for her, who took care of her when he could not. But then none of them were here when she needed them the most, none of them fought for her life. None of them died for her.

“Go where you are needed, Ser Jorah.”

“I will,” he avows, and he goes. Sets one foot in front of the other, a dead man walking, in every sense of the word – and isn’t that ironic. He makes it but ten steps when he realises the Red Woman is not joining him. “What about you?”

“I am no longer needed,” she says as she unclasps her necklace and lets it drop to the ground. “The night has ceased to be dark and full of terrors.”

Melisandre walks away from him, away from Winterfell, away from life, her form growing older with each step she takes until she simply collapses into dust.

Jorah inclines his head as her ashes scatter in the wind. “Thank you, Priestess.”

* * *

By the time he reaches the castle, Jorah has resorted to using Heartsbane as a walking stick. It’s not the way a Valyrian steel blade should be treated, not the blade given to him by the man who saved him from becoming a Stone Man, the blade without which he never would have saved Daenerys from certain death. But his body is weak and stiff and pained, his wounds closed but not healed, and it’s all he can do not to collapse again.

The gates of Winterfell are ruined, the courtyard a mess of bodies and rubble. Few are out here still, those unable to rest in the wake of victory, clearing out the debris or inspecting the corpses of the fallen to separate friend from foe. None pay him any mind when he passes them.

When he was still the Lord of Bear Island, before he was exiled from Westeros, he spent many days within these walls, whenever the Warden of the North called for his bannermen. He knows the halls of this castle almost as well as he does those of the keep he was born in, and it is only this blind knowledge that leads him to the Great Hall.

Its doors are open, and within are the lords and ladies and others of importance, the collective force of them much diminished since they last gathered here before the Long Night. And Jorah knows he should be inspecting the crowd much more carefully, should be concerned for Lyanna, and for the Starks, and for Grey Worm and Missandei. But all he can see is his Queen sitting at the head of the centre table, looking tired and dirty and heartbroken but so very, very alive, and that is all that matters.

Someone gasps, and a cup shatters, and then all eyes are on him as he approaches, the sound of Heartsbane hitting the floor in tandem with his step echoing throughout the Great Hall. Some draw their blades – because of course they do, seeing a man return from death when they have just fought an army of those raised from the grave.

But he is not their enemy.

He kneels, holding Heartsbane before him, its ever-sharp tip grinding into the floor, and he speaks the same words he spoke long ago, the day he regained her favour in the Great Pit of Daznak, the words that seem more fitting than anything else right now. “ _I fight and die for your glory_ ,” he declares in High Valyrian, “ _oh glorious Queen_.”

The scraping of a chair, hurried footfalls – and then his sword is knocked out of his hands, clattering noisily to the floor, and his vision is obscured by white as Daenerys throws her arms around his neck.

If he were acting as her advisor, he would have counselled against such a blatant display of emotion before all of her subjects. Instead, he selfishly clings to her, buries his face into her hair and inhales her scent, because he now knows better than ever that every moment could be his last, and he will take whatever she is willing to give.

Only when she pulls back does he realise she’s crying, tears streaming silently down her cheeks. “How?” she whispers, her hand squeezing his forearm tightly, as if to ground herself. “I held you as you died, I saw the light leave your eyes, I heard you breathe your last. How are you here?”

“The Red Woman,” he answers. “She brought me back. It seems I still have some unfinished business left to attend to.”

“Unfinished business?”

“You have not yet taken the Seven Kingdoms, Khaleesi.”

“And I will need you by my side,” she murmurs, followed by a breathless laugh. It’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. “How could I ever have thought death would keep you from honouring your vow?”

He allows himself a tired but earnest smile, moved by her faith in him, by her forgiveness and her love, even after all he did to her. He will see her take that throne if it is the last thing he does.

Daenerys rises, and he rises with her, as he always has. He’s dimly aware of Missandei collecting his sword – Tarly’s sword – and following after them as his Queen leads him from the Great Hall. “Someone should see to your wounds,” she tells him, “and a bath is in order, I believe.”

He gets a glimpse of the others as they pass, the faces of those who survived the Battle of Ice and Fire. Jon Snow has a look of understanding in his eyes, one hand resting over the scar on his heart. Tyrion Lannister holds up his goblet in a toast and drinks deeply. Grey Worm bows his head in respect for the Commander of the Queensguard. Samwell Tarly smiles, awkwardly but sincerely.

Lyanna is not there to glare at him, and that is a wholly different kind of pain. He doesn’t let himself feel it, refuses to give in to grief for his cousin and his House. Tomorrow, he will honour her memory. Tomorrow he will help pick up the pieces, and make plans for the future.

But tonight, he will simply live.

And that’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, remember that time this fic was totally canon? Yeah haha me too!


End file.
